


Dragonbane

by ScriptrixDraconum



Series: "Hero" Companion Piece [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dragons, F/M, Forsworn, Multi, Orc Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptrixDraconum/pseuds/ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am Torug. I am Dragonborn. I am protector of the Forsworn, scourge of the Nords, and bane of all dragons. My warhammer will taste the blood of my enemies. </p><p>Companion piece to my <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/57573">Hero Series</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Torug

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely readers! Here is your teaser to introduce a new OMC, Torug, and give a little backstory on him. This flash fiction series will not explain all of what happened at the end of "Hero by Mistake", it's not supposed to, but it will give a couple hints and help readers understand things that will happen in the sequel to "Hero by Mistake". That is, until Deborah hears about it herself.
> 
> That said… Part 2 of the Hero Series will be called… "Hero by Choice"!
> 
> I keep hearing Kanye West's "Amazing" whenever I think of Torug, so I'm going to name that his theme song.

Torug gro-Dushnikh, one-time clan-brother of Ghorbash gro-Dushnikh, on the full moon was named protector of the Forsworn. Torug and Borkul, sometimes called Borkul the Beast, were the only orcs ever accepted into the tribe of tiny Bretons. The acceptance was easy, as both of their clans had been allied with the Reachmen for centuries. After helping Madanach, once known as the King in Rags, escape from Cidhna Mine, a prison deep in the bowels of Markarth, Torug and Borkul lived with Madanach's tribe. Months later, the King of the Reach named the orcs his personal guards.

Borkul had nowhere else to go after serving time in the mine for over ten years; his stronghold had been destroyed by local Nords over a land dispute. As for Torug, he was clanless  _before_  he was arrested and thrown into the mine. He was banished from his stronghold for daring to touch the third wife of his chieftain. The fact that she touched Torug  _first_  didn't seem to matter. When the male youngling she bore had no hint of horn buds above his brow – a sign of their chieftain's blood – the chieftain, Burguk, grew suspicious. He hired a Forsworn shaman to use blood magic to find the youngling's father, and the magic led the shaman to Torug. The youngling borne by the third wife, Arob, was killed, and Torug was banished. For years he had nightmares about what Burguk did to Arob after that day.

The guards in Markarth had tossed Torug into Cidhna Mine after he was caught "stealing a horse", despite the fact that the horse they claimed he had stolen was no bigger than a dog and would have been crushed under his weight. What truly happened, he thoroughly believed, was that the Silver-Bloods, a rich family in the city, had used their spies to find out Torug was living with the Forsworn, and tossed him in the prison as an example to show others what would happen to anyone who joined with the Forsworn.

While he would forever be Orsimer, he would no longer be like other orcs, not ever again. He was Forsworn, a Reachman, and scourge of the Nords.

. . . . . .

" _Our blades are honed, our quivers full, our wills steeled for battle._  
 _You want to know who the Forsworn are?_  
 _We are the people who must pillage our own land,_  
 _Burn our own ground._  
 _We are the scourge of the Nords."_  


As he gazed at the tent roof, Torug listened to the soft, steady breathing of the three ladies tangled around him. They could not handle their fermented juniper berry juice as well as he could.

After Torug and Borkul had been named Forsworn, the reveling had begun. Drinks were drunk, songs were sung, and women danced naked or nearly so to ancient drum rhythms. The members of Madanach's tribe celebrated life and liberty in every way they knew how.

There were more than just these three women last night who, with their bodies, praised Torug and his new station. He didn't know all of their names, not yet, but the only woman he remembered not participating in the pile of writhing bodies was Madanach's wife, their Queen, Leagsaidh. She had waited for him all those years he was locked away underground, never letting another man touch her, and killing any who tried. Torug had to respect that.

The redhead to his left stirred, still asleep, and her waist-long curls fell to cover her chest when she turned toward Torug. He undid this travesty, brushing the tresses over her left shoulder in order to gaze upon her small, firm twin mounds. Rhianne was her name. She was one of his favorites. Behind her, arms wrapped around Rhianne's waist, lay a blonde-haired huntress named Eibheag. She preferred women, but often found herself in Torug's bed when he took other women into it. To his right was Torug's, for lack of a better term, lover, Seaghdha. Her hair was as black as Torug's, but soft like water, not coarse like rusted iron. Seaghdha was a shaman, and the tattoos all over her face and body accentuated her features in such a way that entranced Torug. He himself had tattoos – robust, dark green designs, marks of his once-clan and station. Seaghdha's marks were delicate – intricate and unending black vines curving around her body.

Torug turned to her, his lust stirring once again. At the touch of his mouth to Seaghdha's tiny, dark nipple, his little shaman moaned. She enjoyed the mix of pain and pleasure that his tusks left across her skin. Within moments of waking, his little hawk flung herself over Torug, pinning him to his furs and sinking her teeth into the flesh of his chest. He grabbed a hold of her long, straight coal-black hair and tugged it back, forcing her to look at his face. She was grinning. She had not drawn blood, not that time, but she had a habit of doing so. The scars on his body originated from all sorts of battles….

Without him needing to urge her lower, Seaghdha shifted to Torug's waist. As her mouth lowered onto his swelling organ, he briefly wondered if he was able to produce younglings with these tiny Bretons. Before last night, Rhianne, Eibheag, and mainly Seaghdha were the only Forsworn women he had shared his furs with, and to the best of his knowledge none of them had been impregnated. He didn't care, in the end; he was simply curious to know if any of the women he had fucked the night before would wake up in several weeks vomiting and cursing his name. The thought made him laugh.

Seaghdha lifted herself from Torug and replaced mouth with hand. "What's so funny, eh Torug? Am I  _tickling_  you?" With her question, she grabbed a hold of his short-and-curlies and tugged.

Torug grunted, but kept laughing. "No, little hawk. I was just wondering if I could make life within a woman of your… delicate structure. There were many, last night." He laughed again.

His crazy shaman narrowed her black-brown eyes at him. "It's their own fault if they conceive a child from a union with you or Borkul. I don't want to think about birthing such a large baby…."

Torug shrugged. "I don't think it'd be that bad." He looked down to admire her handiwork. "You can fit  _that_  inside you, after all."

Seaghdha then crawled up Torug's body until she was sitting on his organ, pressing it against his body. "Be thankful you do not have to care about little brats running around your knees.  _You_ , my protector, will have enough to worry about soon. But, until then…." His midnight hawk pierced her own flesh with his sword, taking it all within her. Her sharp fingernails raked down his chest and torso as she impaled herself again and again. Torug watched as the white feathers tied to strands of her flowing hair fluttered up and down.

He then felt more warm hands upon his chest. Rhianne yawned and stretched, and her red curls tickled his arm. He shared his affections between her and Seaghdha, cupping one of Rhianne's small breasts, rolling the pink central bud between a finger and thumb.

Eibheag, still curled up behind Rhianne, groaned. "Why's the… shaking...?  _Ughhh_ …."

Through their grunts and moans, Seaghdha and Torug laughed.

"Torug! Get outside!  _NOW!_ " The voice belonged to Madanach.

 _Damn it,_ Torug thought.

Seaghdha slowed her hips and moved to get off of him, but Torug forced her back down. "Don't you dare leave yet."

"But—"

He held Seaghdha's waist as he flipped her to her back, pinning her down. With newfound urgency, he finished what his shaman started.

"Torug!" The King's voice called again.

"Rhianne, go calm your King," Torug grunted. The woman, with Eibheag wavering behind her, obediently left the tent.

Several moments later, Torug didn't bother dressing before pushing through the unfastened flap of his tent. "This better be good," he bellowed. Madanach took note of Torug's nakedness but chose to ignore it. The King pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward the northeast. Torug squinted against the light of the rising sun and saw a dark expanse move across the horizon. "What is that?" he asked his King.

"I may have been underground for many years, but I've read enough books," Madanach replied. "I know a dragon when I see one."

Torug paused a moment, keeping his eyes to the northeast. "Dragon?"

The King shouted for his people to retreat into the nearby cave they used in times of bad weather.

Torug watched as dozens of tiny, naked Bretons scattered about the camp, trying to find their scraps of animal skin clothing. How these people managed to stay alive while wearing next to nothing to protect their skin, Torug didn't know. He credited magic. After admiring the view once more before various ladies re-clad themselves, Torug turned back to the northeast and watched the dark figure flap its wings. Whenever he thought the beast was drawing ever nearer, it soon swerved further away.

A hand brushed his, and Torug turned to see Seaghdha. "Ever fight a dragon before?" he asked her.

"Only the one between your legs," she smirked. "Go get dressed, ore-for-brains. Quickly." She smacked his bare green ass as he walked back to his tent.

 _Ore-for-brains._ She was a keeper.

His old orc armor was still in good shape. Torug thanked Malacath that Madanach had someone retrieve it from the Markarth prison lock-up just before they all escaped. Once dressed, he picked up the legendary warhammer Volendrung which stood more than half his height. The weapon shimmered green, signaling its enchanted status. A small, glowing red orb in the center of the hammer's head glowed brighter when held by its intended owner. For an ebony weapon, it was extraordinarily light in weight, and became even lighter with every enemy it took down during a battle. The multitude of spikes decorating the hammer's head never dulled, and could pierce the strongest of armor.

The weapon had mysteriously appeared the morning of their last day inside Cidhna Mine. Madanach took one look at the weapon in Torug's hands and knew the sign he had been waiting for had come. Malacath was watching over the orc. Malacath was watching over all of them. The betrayed. The forsaken. The Forsworn.

Volendrung felt light in Torug's hands. He grinned. "This is gonna be fun."

Seaghdha stood her ground at Torug's side, ready to defend their camp from the dragon when it came.

"I am ready," Torug growled.

"Yes, you are, my protector." She wasn't looking at him, but rather at the dragon.

Torug walked forward, somewhat away from their camp, wanting to lure the beast to a safer place, away from his tent, away from their food and their beds.

It was coming.

Ice. The dragon breathed ice. That was not expected. The stream of frost came right for Torug when the dragon paused its flight to attack, but he ran away and took shelter behind a rise in the earth.

"We need to bring it down!" his fierce hawk screamed. She sent forth fire from her hands. Before the dragon swooped away from her magic's reach, it let out a sharp squeal. The fire worked.

And soon the beast was grounded on the meadow before Torug, across the shallow river from their camp. The pair ran toward it as fast as they could, Seaghdha all the while sending fireballs at the beast. Torug was faster than her, though. He was always a fast runner, even for an orc of his size. His heavy armor barely even registered against his flesh as he barreled forward, Volendrung raised. His fiery shaman distracted the dragon with her magic as he quickly, easily, smashed the end of his warhammer into its skull. The spikey surface pierced all the way through to the dragon's brain. A groan from deep within the giant animal's chest rumbled. Dark blood spattered everywhere.

The dragon collapsed. The ground shook. Torug hitched Volendrung to his back. Seaghdha ran up to him, panting. "By Hircine, that was… that was not easy." She grabbed a tiny green glass bottle from her hip pouch and drank its contents.

Torug smirked and turned back to gaze at the mountain of scaly flesh before him. "We killed a dragon, little hawk…. I had heard they were back, that they were not just legend. The first returned while I was in the mine with Madanach. Burnt a fort in Falkreath Hold to the ground. I wonder if this is the same dragon, or if there are more."

"Hmph, well, I suppose we'll find out. Hey, let's see what it tastes like," she said, grinning as she hopped to her feet.

"Hurr, it probably tastes like anything else you cook."

"Eat your hammer, orc. I have more important things to do than learn to cook like your old clanwomen."

"Yeah, yeah." Torug stepped forward to touch the beast. It was as cold and hard as ice.

" _Nahagliiv! Zil gro dovah ulse! Slen tiid vo!"_

_Stin! Oh, how it felt good to fly! Thousands of years of rest in my grave had rejuvenated me. "I smell you, joorre! I smell the stench of your puny, rotting mortal bodies." I soared over a village and watched in delight as pale-skinned bipeds ran in fear, several becoming statues of ice under my blessed breath. "And magic! I smell magic! Where are you, Akatosh-blessed? Meyz! I want to play! Voth fus ahrk yol ahrk iiz…."_

Torug saw the world as the dragon he killed had seen it. He understood him. He understood his life. Fury Burn Wither was his name. Torug then watched with wide-eyed confusion as its scales and muscles and viscera disintegrated into a golden swirling light, much like his little shaman's healing magic. "What is this?" he asked Seaghdha.

"I-I don't know, Torug. It's… it's magic. The dragon's magic is flowing into you…."

"Heh, it tickles….  _Hurr hurr hurr_. Like butterflies floating inside me." He chuckled again.

"Torug…."

"What?"

"The dragon…."

"Yes, the dragon. What of it?"

"You have absorbed its magic."

"Yes, and?"

Seaghdha blinked at him. "You've lived in Skyrim all your life, and you don't know what this means?"

Torug narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

"You killed a dragon. You touched it. You took its life inside your own body." His little shaman took a step back from him. "You're Dragonborn."

He had certainly misunderstood her. "What?"

" _Dragonborn_. I swear by Hircine you need a good smack sometimes."

"Maybe later," he grinned.

Seaghdha crossed her arms in front of her barely-clothed breasts and grumbled something about cocks. "The Dragonborn, Torug. That god of the Nords, Talos, he was one, I think…. The Dragonborn takes a dragon's life force into his own. Or its soul, perhaps. The only other thing I know is… that the monks on the Throat of the World, near Whiterun, they train the Dragonborn to use the dragon tongue, to Shout."

"Shout?" Torug took a step toward his little hawk. "Wait. Didn't you say that Markarth was taken from the Reachmen by a man who could Shout?"

"Yes. Ulfric Stormcloak. He murdered my people by Shouting them from the ramparts, from the towers and from the gate. The Empire sent him, let him loose on the city, and under the veil of a night fog he destroyed my people with thunder from his mouth."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember now. Are you saying he was Dragonborn?"

"No. The old monks trained him to be  _like_  a Dragonborn, same as that Jarl in Whiterun, Balgruuf. That much I know. Ulfric can Shout a man to the ground, as well as disintegrate his weapon. That's how he killed the Jarl of Solitude, the Nord King." Seaghdha walked up to Torug and clutched his forearms. "Torug, you are what Ulfric pretended to be. You are Dragonborn. I bet you can Shout, now…."

Torug licked his tusk, something he always did when deep in thought. Seaghdha hated the habitual movement. "How exactly would I do that?"

Seaghdha walked up to the dragon's skeleton and ran a hand along a rib that was as long as she was tall. "Think like the dragon. I bet that's the trick. Just like when I call upon the old magic, I have to think like the old gods."

Torug recalled the brief dragon memory he had been shown, and the few words that were spoken by him in the memory, as a dragon, in a language unfamiliar to him. He turned to the skeleton and said one of the unfamiliar words aloud. " _Iiz._ " He watched in amazement as a burst of frost formed in the air in front of his face and landed on the dry bones. "By Malacath…."

"No, by  _Akatosh_ …." Seaghdha's hand grasped Torug's. "You  _are_  Dragonborn…."

He turned to his worried shaman to gaze into her warm, dark eyes. "What does this mean? For me, for the tribe…."

"I don't know, Torug." His little hawk's wings tickled his cheeks as she held his face in front of hers. "We need to tell Madanach. We need to send word north, to Haafingar and to High Rock. The exiled Reachmen… those hiding, waiting in Markarth… they need to know. They need to know who we have with us, now. They need to stop hiding.  _We can take back our home_ , Torug…."

Seaghdha flew into Torug's arms and kissed him, hard, sending them to the grass next to the dragon's skeleton. She began to furiously undo the buckles at his waist. He chuckled and turned his head to gaze into the maw of the dragon, his new source of power, the divine gift that could help him be the savior for his new people. He reached out and grabbed a hold of one of the dagger-sized, serrated teeth. "I'm gonna make a necklace outta you…."

A faint voice in the back of Torug's mind laughed and spoke in the same new language he had heard while experiencing the short dragon memory.  _Nox fah drokurvon, dovahkiin…. Nox. Nox…._  Torug did not know the language, but he understood what the voice was saying all the same.  _Thank you for playing, Dragonborn. Thank you, thank you_ ….The voice slowly faded, and he never heard it again.

As his crazy shaman began to unhitch his leg armor, a roar sounded from the east, and she stopped undressing Torug to look for the source of the sound.

"Another?" he asked. The world grew silent, and birds once again ceased their morning songs. Torug heard the distant chatter of young Forsworn.

Suddenly the ground shook when an enormous, black, ragged-looking dragon emerged with fierce speed from over the distant hills to the east. It was coming right for Torug and Seaghdha. His little hawk began again her fiery assault as Torug refastened his armor. This dragon was fearless. It roared, and thunder sounded from its lungs, shaking them to their feet.

Fire-breath then came down upon them, the Forsworn camp, and the field around it all. Seaghdha and Torug were near enough to the river to not be burned alive by the ensuing grassfire, but the position left them very much open to aerial assaults. Torug heard shouts from behind them, and when the black dragon again soared above the camp, arrows were loosed upon it.

Torug turned back to his tribe and shouted, "Aim for its wings!"

When he turned back to look for Seaghdha, she was gone. He then spotted her running back toward the camp, back to her people who had left the protection of the cave to help with the second dragon attack. The dragon swerved, ignoring Torug and heading straight for the camp. "Seaghdha!" he screamed for his little shaman.

Torug was too late. As the dragon approached the camp, it reached out with its giant claws and snatched up several of Torug's new kinsmen, including Seaghdha. After soaring to a nauseating height, the claws opened. Time slowed as Torug watched his little hawk fly to her death.

The dragon spoke aloud in that same unknown language Torug had heard before in his head.

_"Meyye! Nust wo ni qiilaan fen kos duaan. Zu'u Alduin, zok sahrot do naan ko Lein! Zu'u hin daan!"_

_Fools!_ Torug understood the dragon.  _Those who do not bow will be devoured. I am Destroyer Devour Master, most mighty of any in the World! I am your doom!_

As the black dragon soared off to the north, Torug sank to his knees. Madanach, standing tall on a short hill surrounding the camp, caught his eye. Torug wondered if his King could sense the rage building within him. He growled, hoping the dragon that had escaped him could feel his desire to rip its eyes out with his fists.

The violent urge would not subside. Torug stood, gazing to the north, and screamed a word he knew the black dragon would understand. " _YOL!"_  After the word escaped his lips, a burst of fire shot forth into the sky. He could breathe fire as the dragons did. He was a dragon. He was a beast.

Torug closed his eyes. His head hung forward. His shoulders sagged. His fists loosened. Volendrung dropped to the ground.

Dragonborn.  _Dovahkiin_. His world had ended once before, and it had just ended a second time. The orc rose to his feet, reborn yet again.

Torug gro-Dushnikh was dead. Torug Dragonbane had taken his place.

He walked over to where Seaghdha had fallen. Her hair flared out like a black flame, white feathers still clinging here and there. Her back had broken over a rock, and her limbs were flung at awkward angles. The dragon's claws had ripped through her torso, interrupting the flow of her elegant tattoos as well as, Torug realized , likely causing her immense pain before she died. Torug knelt down, gathered her in his arms, and walked her over to the riverbank. She would have to be sent back to her gods soon, with the others, by way of a funeral pyre.

After an eternal moment of gazing upon his little hawk one more time, Torug went to go search for some wood.


	2. Forsworn

  
_When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding,_   
_The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn._   


_Torug the Dragonborn,_ the orc mused.  _Protector of the Forsworn, scourge of the Nords, bane of all dragons, hunter of the black dragon Alduin._

Torug first went north with Forsworn messengers to spread the news – the Dragonborn was on their side, and sometime in the years to come, they would retake The Reach, their homeland as well as Torug's. The far west of Skyrim would be a free country, reclaimed by the Reachmen, independent from even High Rock which lay beyond the mountains along Skyrim's western border.

From the northwest, Torug headed towards Helgen in the south of Skyrim, the site of the first dragon attack. He stuck to the hills, avoiding main roads when possible. He hunted and gathered for his meals and camped only in cave openings or under rockshelters. Several bears and trolls refused to share, and ended up donating their teeth and claws to his growing collection.

As he traveled south, three more dragons attacked him. They seemed to be drawn to his very presence, and perhaps even actively hunted him. Torug brought them all down, alone, with his arrows and dragon words, the Shouts that Seaghdha had told him about before her life was stolen by the black dragon. With every kill, more dragon words flowed through his mind. Even without anyone telling him what they all meant, he knew; he  _felt_  their meanings.

_Laas_. Life. He barely needed to whisper this word and, though it blinded him for a moment, he then saw the glow of red blood in anything living, and even the undead, too, he later realized.

_Yol._ Fire. All of the dragons seemed to know this word. This Shout he already experienced the day Seaghdha died. It took little energy to form the deadly burst of fire from this simple dragon word.

_Fo._ Frost. Some dragons breathed torrents of snow instead of fire, and killing one of these is how Torug learned this word. He learned  _Iiz_ , ice, from his first dragon memory. Breathing this word covered the target with a thick layer of ice.

_Tiid._  Time. Breathing this word created something of a bubble around Torug, either slowing time around him or increasing time for himself, speeding his movements. The Shout allowed him to make a kill leisurely, to take good aim, or to recover with a potion.

_Fus._  Force. A very useful word to know indeed, allowing Torug to push away from him his enemy without raising his weapon.

_Krii_. Kill. Torug learned this from the third dragon he killed, from its dragon memory. He had seen the world as that dragon, and during the memory Torug had a conversation with the black dragon, Alduin. The black dragon had ordered the dragon Torug eventually killed to kill the  _dovahkiin_ , the Dragonborn. Him.

. . . . . .

  
_Human skulls, dead goat heads mounted on pikes, filthy animal pelts, loose entrails._   
_The Forsworn revere and protect these Hagravens._   
_What vile creature would live where all things are dead?_   


Before Torug left The Reach, he passed through another large Forsworn encampment. With the token around his neck that Madanach had given him and the secret hand and arm movement he had known his whole life which signaled allegiance from afar, Torug was accepted into the Forsworn camp. He was able to trade dried meat, animal furs, and various other items for other food, arrows, and potions. He stayed in their camp for eight days, trading, resting, and drowning his grief from losing Seaghdha with fermented juniper berry juice and with the scent of some tiny blonde he never bothered to learn the name of.

During his stay, Torug witnessed for the first time the creation of a Briarheart, the undead servant and high-protector of all Forsworn tribes, second only to the local hagravens that the tribes venerated, and of course Madanach, their King. As Torug had been told, the hagravens themselves were once women, witches in fact, who had undergone an initiation ritual in exchange for becoming one with the dark magic of old gods. The hagraven ritual comprised human sacrifice followed by the summoning of an ancient god, whose name must only be uttered during this ritual, and therefore few knew his name. The god apparently appeared as a magnificent black-feathered humanoid eagle, and is thought to be the reason why ancient Nords worshipped the animal. Torug recalled that the orc rumor suggested that hagravens were actually created by the witch giving herself, corporally, to the black eagle god. As the mating progressed, the witch would become less and less human, and more and more like her eagle companion. The witch sacrificed her humanity and human appearance for the dark magic the god would bestow upon her. Torug never truly understood this particular aspect of the Reachmen's culture, but felt in no place to judge their ancient ways. The magic of the Reachmen was strong, after all, a blessing from the hagravens, and from the old gods.

Torug stood at a polite distance from the stone slab where the dead body of a Forsworn warrior lay. The man, Ardghal, was chosen by the hagravens for the honor of becoming Briarheart. He, as well as ten other young men, volunteered for the position, but Ardghal had proved himself the most worthy. The man's bravery was proved once more when the complicated and impressive ritual began. Ardghal climbed onto the stone slab, laid himself down, uttered a prayer to his gods, and plunged the ceremonial dagger directly into his own heart. The young man died almost instantly, but not before suppressing what surely would have been a fatal scream had he not been trained to withstand immense amounts of physical and emotional pain. This, Torug understood all too well.

Once dead, two hagravens prepared Ardghal's body by washing the wound with herb-infused water, and then proceeded to cut out the man's human, damaged heart. In place of the organ was put the heart of the briarthorn, a rare plant only found in dry, warm areas of the world. The briar hearts were the center of the plant, similar to the center of a cabbage, and when harvested were preserved with the hagraven's magic. The fist-sized objects looked like stout, red pinecones.

Prior to the ritual, the briar heart had been soaked in the blood of the eldest hagraven. Once the briar heart was placed inside the empty chest cavity, sinew was used to attach it to the inside of the dead man's body, and finally thick strips of leather were sewn over the opening to further secure the object in place. In asking his fellow Reachmen why the hagravens did not simply sew the skin back over the wound, Torug was told that not only must the briar heart be able to breathe, but leaving the plant husk exposed in effect enhanced its ability to absorb magic. The open would was also a clear sign of the man's station, of his being Briarheart.

Torug listened as the hagravens recited in unison the ritualistic words that would imbue the dead man's body with the magic of their gods. "Heart of thorn... bones of the wild. In life, Forsworn. Rise from death, Blood of our Blood."

Almost immediately, the man who was once called Ardghal rose from the stone slab. His movements were slow, but sure. The newly-born Briarheart soon stood firm on the ground. The hagravens inspected their servant, making sure the bindings around his briar heart were still secure, poking and prodding the being's body, inspecting their work. Ardghal was dead. Briarheart had taken his place. The human life and personality was gone, sacrificed to the old gods in return for the protection of his tribe.

When Torug later looked into the undead man's eyes, he saw no hint of life. The Briarheart was a vessel of magic and might only – his soul was the true sacrifice.

. . . . . . .

_Love, hatred, loyalty, betrayal._  
 _Pluck but a single thread, and the weave unravels._  


Their camp shaman was curious to witness the power of the Dragonborn, just as the Forsworn in the north had been, and Torug agreed to demonstrate at the Summoning of Mephala, one of their Daedric Lords. A large sacrifice was to be made prior to the feast and orgy, and they gave Torug the honor of sending the chosen ones – three she-goats and a virgin girl from a nearby Nord village – to their Lord.

The chosen ones were chained to posts, so Torug could demonstrate as many Shouts as he wanted. He began with  _Fus_ , which landed a full-body blow on the goats and girl, garnering pathetic little cries from them all. He then breathed  _Fos,_ and watched as their skin chapped and burned from a layer of frost. Second to last, he demonstrated  _Krii_. The goats and girl fell to their knees, weakened. The Shout also apparently made little tears in clothing and damaged the goat's fur, because threads of linen from the girl's dress and tufts of fur from the goats floated to the ground around them. Finally, Torug ended with  _Yol_. The chosen ones were burnt alive.

The girl was left for the birds and bugs, but the goats were prepared for the feast. A cup of fermented juniper berry juice in one hand and the roasted leg of a goat in the other, Torug ate and drank while a hoard of tiny Breton ladies feasted upon him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more short chapters to go! I'm glad so many of you are enjoying this short story. 
> 
> Oh, and if you hadn't guessed, all the italicized passages before each section are quotes (some slightly tweaked) from actual books or in-game quotes from Skyrim or Oblivion.
> 
> Also, sorry if any of you were unnerved by the sacrifice of a virgin girl... or goats for that matter. But anyone who's done the quest "The Heart of Dibella" in Skyrim knows that the Forsworn have a kinky version of Dibellan worship which involves severed goat's heads, candles, and little girls. Considering what COULD have happened... I think I spared your stomachs quite a bit. Maybe one day when my stomach is feeling more iron-clad I'll submit a one-shot to AO3 where I can go hog-wild with awful, awful graphic detail. (But I have better things to do, for now).
> 
> ....Anyway.......
> 
> Stay tuned for more. I apologize again for not yet finishing the epilogues for "Fire on the Mountain". My inspiration for that is dead. I'm sorry. I love my characters and they need their closure, so it'll happen, but maybe not until December when the semester is over. Also, as of December I will NO LONGER BE TEACHING. YAY!! Which means more time writing. I mean more time in the lab... in the lab! *cough cough*.... 
> 
> [BAD GRAD STUDENT! *slaps wrist*]
> 
> I've had too much caffeine....


	3. Blade

_There are those that say the Blades still exist around us,_   
_in hiding from the Thalmor._   
_Waiting as they have done time and time again,_   
_for a Dragonborn to return._   
_For one to protect, for one to guide them._

From the southeast of The Reach, travel to the next Hold, Falkreath, was easy. Torug bypassed the town of Falkreath and headed straight for where he was told to find Helgen. There wasn't much left of the fortified town, but he managed to scavenge a few useful items. After squatting for the night in the ruins, Torug traveled north to White River, and to a set of Standing Stones some of his more adventurous Forsworn friends had told him about. He pressed his palms to the stone with the engraving of a warrior and watched as a pillar of light shot towards the sky, announcing his presence to the gods. He wondered then if Malacath was still watching over him, the banished orc, Blessed of Akatosh.

Torug didn't receive a sign from his old god, but he did catch sight of billowing, dark smoke rising from somewhere in the northeast. He followed the river and eventually came to a small town, most of which was up in flames. Nords were screaming and gathering their children, fleeing for the northern hills at the behest of some redheaded woman who was wearing what Torug thought was the typical Stormcloak blue cloak over a simple cloth dress. She was about ready to drop a youngling. Torug then realized the dragon was still there. It had flown somewhat south of the town, but lifted off its distant perch when Torug arrived. The beast had sensed him.

Torug greeted the dragon with a burst of flames from his lips. The light-brown beast dove low and attempted to grasp Torug with its claws but failed. Torug was fast, faster than most orcs, and rolled away behind a rise in the earth. The dragon swerved and came at him again, but Torug staggered it mid-flight with force from his lungs, just long enough to shoot several arrows at its wings, tearing holes in the thin membrane. Force. Arrows. Frost. Force. Arrows. Frost.

A tiny, older blonde Breton woman in leather armor joined Torug in sending arrows at the beast. Force. Arrows. Frost. The dragon was soon his.

The screams of the Nords villagers had faded into the distance by the time Torug and the little Breton downed the beast. For the brief moment that he experienced life as the dragon had seen it just before it died, Torug was quite vulnerable; he realized this after his second dragon kill when a bear decided to try and eat his face. But soon Torug's vision and body was his own again, and the dragon's soul tickled his insides as it fused with his own soul. With every kill, Torug felt stronger, bigger, faster, and younger.

"I can't believe it…," the tiny blonde Breton said, jaw agape as she registered what she had just witnessed.

"Yeah, thanks," Torug grumbled as he knelt before the jumbled pile of dragon bones before him, collecting several scales that happened to fall off and not disappear with the rest of the dragon's flesh.

"You're Dragonborn," the woman whispered.

"Yeah," Torug said as he began to saw off a horn.

"But you're an  _orc_."

Torug snapped the half-sawn horn off of the dragon's massive skull and turned to the woman who stood two heads shorter than him. "Yeah," he replied, turning back to the dragon skull. He snapped off another horn, foregoing the small saw he carried. He started to remove some of the dragon's teeth, but stopped when he realized the woman was still staring at him. He looked to his side and into her eyes. "What!?"

The woman proved herself either brave or stupid when she dared approach Torug, a smirk creating a dimple in her cheek. "I've been waiting for you," she said, her voice taking on a sly tone. "My name's Delphine. Welcome to what  _was_  Riverwood…."

. . . . . .

_An Orc grows up being told to fight for everything,_  
 _but if something is not worth fighting for it is beneath the Code._

Torug and Delphine travelled on foot toward the southeast, to Riften where the woman suspected her old friend, Esbern, was hiding out. The tiny blonde convinced Torug to help her find her old friend in exchange for the orc becoming an even more powerful dragon hunter. Esbern likely knew how Torug could defeat Alduin, the black dragon, and Delphine knew the locations of dragon burials thanks to an ancient stone she had stolen from an old traveler not long ago. The dragons were being resurrected from these burials, she told Torug, and finding the burials might lead them to more dragons. The Breton also knew of something called Word Walls, which apparently would help the Dragonborn learn more dragon words and, in the end, more Shouts. For these reasons alone Torug agreed to join Delphine's dwindled gang, The Blades. Torug was, after all, the Dragonborn, and The Blades were sworn to protect him.

Only a fool would refuse such assistance.

As Delphine had explained it to Torug, she was a member of a nearly-extinct order of dragon hunters who were being hunted by the Thalmor, a faction of High Elves that had once attempted to overtake the Empire, and continued to claim The Blades as a threat to their safety, "Which is a bunch of horse shit," Delphine had added with an annoyed tone. "We Blades were always wary of the Thalmor and their intentions…. We were right, of course." She had been in hiding for years, as was her friend Esbern. For all she knew, the two were the only Blades left in the world. "The Thalmor want to rule the world. What better way to conquer Skyrim than to set its citizens upon each other and then send in the dragons to finish them off? The Thalmor, as most High Elves, despise all other races; believe we are lesser creatures, unworthy of breathing. The Empire kissed the feet of the Thalmor, but The Blades never will. We fought them in the Great War… and paid with our lives."

"My father fought in the Great War," Torug muttered. "The things those elves called him…." Torug scowled as the memory resurfaced. "I never understood why my brothers and sisters joined the Imperial Army for this… civil war."

"Do you prefer the Stormcloaks?" Delphine asked.

Torug whipped to his side and responded with an immediate and firm, " _No._ " He glared at the Breton for a moment before returning his gaze to the hills ahead of them. Not long later, he added, "I am Forsworn."

" _Forsworn_!?" Delphine nearly laughed. "Well… that is a third option I didn't consider. Do General Tullius or Ulfric Stormcloak know that their mutual enemy has the Dragonborn on their side?"

"Doubtful," Torug replied. "Besides the Reachmen, you are the only person to witness what I do."

Delphine studied Torug a moment before speaking again. "The Reachmen want their land back, don't they?" Her tone told Torug she already knew the answer, and that she held no ill feelings about the notion.

Torug didn't mind the question, and answered truthfully. "With Skyrim weakened by their civil war, Madanach, the King of the Reach, is planning to take back their land, yes. After the first dragon attack... he told me to seek my own destiny…. He will send someone to find me when the time to retake the Reach has come."

Like Torug, Delphine preferred to stick to the hills, avoiding roads, and camping in a tent she had loaded onto a packhorse. Winter in the south of Skyrim was never particularly harsh, but the nights were still cold, and Torug was used to sharing his furs with at least one more warm body. Despite her age – Torug guessed she was about forty-five or fifty – Delphine, as a Breton and a warrior, was vaguely appealing to him.

Like any orc, he naturally found the muscular, thick bodies of his female kinfolk attractive, but not being a chieftain – he was the seventh son of a chieftain, and therefore would never be chieftain himself – he was forbidden to have children, and there theoretically forbidden to take an orc lover. Most non-chieftain male orcs took to a life of celibacy and dedicated their energy to warfare. Some male orcs, unable to shed the need for companionship, found intimacy with other male orcs. This practice, while tolerated, was not exactly promoted, and was not very common. Those male orcs who did not desire to lay with another male instead found comfort in the arms of the Reachwomen who, unlike the other humans of Tamriel, did not typically find Orsimer repulsive.

In the cities, orcs had more freedom and could mate or marry whoever they chose. Torug knew of a few orcs who had mated with Dunmer and Redguards, but never heard of an orc partnering with a Nord, Imperial, or non-Reachman Breton. Bosmer apparently were too tiny, tinier than Bretons, to work on a physical level with orcs. Altmer, thinking themselves better than the rest of the races of Nirn, barely acknowledged the existence of Orsimer they met. As for the beastfolk, Torug never knew an orc to mate with a Khajiit or Argonian, but had personally met an Argonian or two who he wouldn't have minded taking to bed. He knew that this was an uncommon desire, though.

Delphine slept in her leather armor, something Torug could not do. His heavy, jagged orc armor would leave his body in bruises if he did so. Aware of the stench his hide underarmor had acquired, he elected to sleep only in a clean loincloth. Orcs ran warm to begin with, but the fur blankets he and Delphine had packed kept him moderately warm.

When the woman turned on her side, facing away from Torug on her own bedroll, he took in the mannish form of her body. He wondered if it was the armor that hid her curves, or if Delphine was simply less curvy than the typical Breton.

He could no longer ignore his growing need. Leaning forward slowly and fingers splayed he tightly grasped the Breton's narrow hip and pulled himself up against the woman's back. His tusks grazed the nape of her neck, a sensation most Forsworn women shivered in response to.

Not Delphine.

The blonde flung her body to her back and immediately pressed a dagger to the orc's throat. The blade was blocked by Torug's long, knotted beard, however; his coarse hair was as good as a piece of neck armor. Torug grinned, and couldn't help but chuckle. He lifted his hand from the woman's hip and held it up in the air. "Apologies, little Blade. I am not used to having to ask." Torug lowered his hand to his side.

"Right…," Delphine replied in a snide tone. She tucked her elven dagger away and settled down on her back, still looking at Torug. He had told her vague details about his time with the Forsworn, and she assumed that the Reachwomen were somewhat more open with their bodies… and standards. "Sorry, Torug. You're not exactly my type."

"Huh." The orc lay back on his bedroll and stared at the tent ceiling. "Not into orcs, then," he assumed.

Torug heard Delphine stir, and turned his head to find her on her side, facing him. The woman gave several firm pats on Torug's steel-hard and hairless torso. "I like orcs just fine. I'm just not into cocks, green or otherwise." Delphine gave Torug a wink, slid her hands under her head, and shut her eyes to sleep.

Torug let her comment sink into his mind. Letting out a single, rough laugh, he slipped out of the tent to take care of business himself.


	4. Dragonborn

  
_Long has the Storm Crown languished with no worthy brow to sit upon._   


In the morning, storm clouds shielded the sky but did not create rain. When the pair was just west of Ivarstead, they heard a thunder clap, but there was no lightning. The ground shook soon after.

In voices powerful enough to rumble his very insides, Torug heard his name and his new title spoken in the language of the dragons. " _Torug! Dovahkiin! Meyz!"_ Torug. Dragonborn. Come.

The force of the earthquake had sent Delphine to the ground. When it stopped, Torug helped the fierce Breton to her feet. "What in all of Tamriel was  _that_?" Delphine asked as Torug pulled her up by her hand.

"I heard my name in the thunder," Torug replied.

"Your name…," Delphine gazed at the orc. "Oh,  _gods damn it_. The Greybeards have discovered your presence."

"The…," Torug paused to think a moment. "The monks? On that mountain?" Torug nodded toward the north.

"Yes." The woman sighed. "They want you to go to them. Learn to be the legendary  _Dooovahkiiiiin_." Delphine said the last word with a stressed sarcastic flair accompanied by the flourishing of her fingers.

Torug studied the blonde for a moment. "You don't think I should go…."

"No, I don't. You know you're Dragonborn. I know you're Dragonborn. You can  _already_  Shout and slay dragons. There's no need to climb up that monster just to waste away your life in a cold stone fortress with a bunch of old, useless men."

In the end, Torug refused to scale the mountain in the center of Skyrim, the Throat of the World, to meet with the Greybeards, to see what they truly wanted from him.

_They strive for peace, seclusion, and veneration of the Divines_ , the blonde Breton had said.

_Well, fuck that,_  Torug had concluded.

. . . . . .

_The Blood Seal was consecrated_  
 _in the presence of all the Dragonguard of Skyrim,_  
 _a great honor of which few Temples can boast._  


The way to Sky Haven Temple, an ancient and nearly-forgotten hide-out of The Blades in Skyrim, led Torug, Delphine and Esbern to a Forsworn settlement in a mountainous area called Karthspire. From a distance, Torug signaled his alliance to the Forsworn with a hand and arm movement. The movement was simple, but difficult to guess how to perform it exactly. First, the left arm was raised above the head, followed by the right – always in that order – and when both arms were above the head, the hands were clasped together. The position had to be held until a Forsworn scout repeated the movement, signaling their acknowledgement of the statement of non-threat. Once the Forsworn scout acknowledged the signaler, arms were dropped one at a time to the signaler's sides, again the left before the right. At this point, the Forsworn scout, having decided the approaching person was not a threat, dropped their arms in the same fashion and walked to greet the travelers. For someone like Torug who was decidedly not blood-kin to the Reachmen, the talisman worn around his neck was especially needed as the final assurance of his allegiance.

Delphine and Esbern were impressed and admittedly relieved that they did not have to fight off dozens of Forsworn and a handful of hagravens in order to get through to their destination. A Forsworn warrior named Manas guided them though the tunnels and caverns that were the quickest way to Sky Haven Temple. Manas related to the travelers that no one had ever been inside the temple, as it was laden with traps and none of his tribesmen thought it necessary to bother venturing inside. The Reachmen preferred to sleep under the stars, not under the ground. Manas left the travelers to enter the temple on their own.

With much patience and Esbern's help, particularly with deciphering the traps and puzzles that tested the knowledge and intellect of those who passed through, the three were able to enter the temple without issue. The final barrier was a large seal, forged with an ancient form of blood magic; it reacted solely to the shedding of the blood of a dragon, or, of the Dragonborn, whose blood was indeed like that of a dragon's. Upon the reception of merely a drop of Torug's blood, the enormous stone visage of an ancient Dragonborn – Reman Cyrodiil, as Esbern recalled – tilted up and allowed the trio entrance to the temple that had been previously abandoned for centuries.

Inside the temple was a stockpile of curious-looking armor and long, dainty swords. The weapons felt like feathers in Torug's hands. One of them shimmered white. He stared at it, and Delphine walked up to him.

"Dragonbane, it's called. Shocks everyone else, but against dragons…," Delphine took the blade from his hands and gave it a few swings, "against dragons, it will pierce their hide like dragonbone itself."

"Dragonbone?" Torug asked her.

"The bone of a dragon is the best  _weapon_  against a dragon. Pierces their scales like a knife to butter. Dragonbane does the same. Other than magic and sheer strength…," Delphine eyed the warhammer hitched to Torug's back, "it's the best weapon there is against the beasts. I've collected a few of the bones from the dragons you've killed since we've been traveling together, but… the knowledge on how to forge them into weapons has been lost over the years. I'll keep trying, though."

Torug turned from the tiny blonde to the armory, to the shelves of long-untouched armor. He walked over to one of the larger mannequins, lifted the helmet, and then lowered it onto his own head. It fit. He took it off again and set it on a table, then began to remove his old, blood-encrusted orc armor. He didn't expect Delphine to still be there, but felt the cuirass lighter in his hands and realized she was helping him remove it. Torug turned and gazed at her, confused and a bit annoyed, but continued. His hide underarmor was stained; it stunk of battle, death, and of his own scent.

He unhitched the dark cuirass from the mannequin. Underneath it was a thick, black leather, long-sleeved tunic. He decided to do away with his old underarmor, if the large black tunic fit. He lifted the hide over his head and let it fall to the cold, stone floor. He suddenly felt overexposed. He turned to see Delphine still there, watching. "You can leave now…." Torug stared her down.

The tiny blonde smirked, turned, and left to go talk with Esbern.

. . . . . .

_When the truth finally dawns, it dawns in fire._  


"A Shout…," Delphine sneered at the thought. "How in Oblivion can a Shout knock a dragon out of the sky?"

"I don't know," Esbern sighed, shaking his head.

The two Blades looked to Torug, who merely stared back, blankly. "How would I know?" he asked, shrugging. "I just use arrows and other Shouts to bring down dragons. They work fine."

Esbern shook his head in moderate aggravation. "I do not think arrows and ordinary Shouts will work on Alduin."

Torug continued to study the intricate, prophetic engravings on Alduin's Wall inside the main hall of Sky Haven Temple. "Why are there skeletons beneath Alduin, here?" he pointed to the lower right panel of the wall, to the right of an over-sized Dragonborn. "And why doesn't the Dragonborn there appear to be affected by Alduin's dragonfire? What kind of shield is that?"

Esbern and Delphine examined the portion of the wall Torug was referring to. "The shield," Esbern began, "well, I don't know. It does not appear to be the traditional Akaviri shield, but he is holding something…. In any case, the skeletons, I assume, are souls being eaten by Alduin. With each mortal soul he devours, he grows stronger. He then recycles these souls, uses their energy to resurrect his fallen brethren…. There is only so much room for souls in existence, and Alduin desires to replace mortal souls with those of dragons. Either way, he is unlike any dragon you have ever slain, Torug. He is infinitely stronger."

"With each  _dragon_ soul I devour,  _I_ grow stronger," Torug countered.

"Alduin has been devouring souls since the beginning of  _time_ , Torug. Don't be foolish." Esbern felt the curves of the engraving with his fingertips. "Yes, you were born to defeat Alduin, but I sincerely doubt you can merely walk up to the dragon-god, spit out words at the beast and expect him to drop from the sky."

"This Wall shows the Dragonborn with other Blades," Delphine chimed in. "Perhaps…," she smoothed back her blonde hair as she waded through her own thoughts, "perhaps we need an army. What is one dragon, ancient or not, against an army of dozens or hundreds of Blades? I've seen Torug in action, Esbern." Delphine walked up to the elderly mage, a serious look in her eyes. "He can bring down a dragon easily. I don't see how Alduin would be any different, particularly if we have the advantage of numbers."

Esbern turned from Delphine to once again gaze at the prophetic Alduin's Wall. Behind the Dragonborn stood several Blades, weapons raised to the sky. "Yes." His whisper echoed within the vacuous stone temple. "An army. I can see how that might change things…. However…," he turned to Delphine and Torug. "That means… recruiting. We need numbers, and lots of them. Capable warriors that would be willing to defend the Dragonborn to the death; willing to sacrifice their lives to our cause; willing to risk persecution from the Thalmor." The old mage scratched his balding head. "I don't know which would take longer… building an army, or figuring out this Shout that was used against Alduin once before."

"Why not use both?" Torug suggested. The two Blades stared at him, curious. "We can build an army. I can find you dozens of Reachmen who would gladly join – Alduin killed several of them, not long ago…. The Reachmen have powerful magic and are keen marksmen. This, and my Shouts… perhaps I can discover this ancient Shout while recruiting at the same time. I don't think the Thalmor would suspect an orc Blade…. Really, I think that is all we need, me and an army. The hardest part will be finding Alduin."

"I think I can help with that," Delphine offered. "As we know, Alduin is the one resurrecting dragons from dragon burials. If we find a dragon burial and wait there for Alduin to come to it… Well, it might be worth a try."

"And what if an army cannot be formed by the time the last dragon is resurrected? What then?" Esbern was nothing if not realistic.

"That  _is_ a good question," said Delphine. "Where would Alduin go once all of the dragons buried on Nirn are alive?"

Esbern turned once again to the engraving. "The afterlife," he said. "Alduin needs souls. He would travel to anywhere in the afterlife – Aetherius, possibly even Oblivion – to gain the souls he so desperately craves. Now, I'm not sure about Oblivion, but I'm certain he can travel to Aetherius."

"Please don't tell me you think we'll have to fight this dragon in the  _afterlife_ ," Torug nearly snarled his remark.

The old mage tuned to Torug. His expression was blank, and his lips sealed.

Delphine could read her friend like a children's book. She turned to a long-disused brazier and kicked it over as she spat a single word. "Balls." Coal dust splattered all over the stone floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realize "this isn't how it happens!" in the game, but keep in mind, one step in a new direction can reset an entire fated path, and that is what is going on with this story, and Deborah's story. The game obviously has a set path for the player to follow; otherwise, there would be infinite possibilities and our computers and consoles would explode. So, this story is just one more possibility. The Blades resent the Greybeards' "virtues", and prefer to take matters into their own hands ("matters" being badass Akaviri swords). Plus, I am switching away from "game mechanics" and making learning dragon words and shouts an entirely innate ability for a Dragonborn, as is witnessed when Torug and Deborah absorb souls. They not only learn the foreign words, they understand them, inherently, which is indeed part of canon lore. As Arngeir in the game tells it, the Dragonborn becomes the Shout. This is due to their dragon soul and dragon blood (well, at least this is the case for Torug – we don't know yet whether or not Deborah has dragon blood, but we can guess she has a dragon's soul….) In any case, I am writing it that Torug does not have to go see the Greybeards. However, since this peek into Torug's life is coming to an end after the next chapter, we won't know how he fairs until we learn about it second-hand in "Hero by Choice". Maybe he can kill Alduin with a handful of Blades, maybe he can't. We won't know for a long, long time….
> 
> Anyway... one more chapter to go!


	5. Scourge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is switched to the first person perspective so that it might feel more… immediate. The setting is technically the present tense, whereas the previous chapters were past occurrences that led up to this current chapter. The concluding chapter of this short story intertwines with the concluding chapter of "Hero by Mistake".

  
_In all the bravado and epic yarns the skalds compose of his exploits,_   
_you would think Ulfric to be a giant of a man,_   
_equal to that of Tiber Septim._   
_The truth is far more revealing._   


In my travels around Skyrim over several months, I had slain eleven dragons and visited several Word Walls, in the process learning many new dragon words and new Shouts. In fulfilling my promise to both Delphine and Esbern, I had succeeded in recruiting dozens of new blood for The Blades. The recruits ranged from bored bandits, angry Forsworn, frightened farmers, and disillusioned army deserters, both Imperial and Stormcloak. I had told them,  _shown_  them who and what I was, and though I was Orsimer many of them gladly accepted the offer of joining the secret dragon-hunting society. When warned about the dangers of becoming the enemy of the Thalmor, many of them cited already harboring a hatred for them and the Dominion, either for crimes the elves committed during the Great War, or more recently during their present inquisition to find and punish Talos worshipers.

The Forsworn of course cared not for the Thalmor's anti-Talos agenda, and in fact unofficially supported it due to its inherent persecution of Nords. The Forsworn did however fear further dragon attacks, and many of their warriors and shamans greatly desired revenge on the beasts that destroyed their camps or killed their kin. The Reachmen wanted to take back their home, but they wanted a home that was not rendered uninhabitable.

The logistics of recruiting both Nord and Forsworn, as well as several people from other races, proved awkward. Since Sky Haven Temple was not only in Forsworn country but its entrance was directly adjacent to a Forsworn camp, it was necessary to establish a second hideout for Blades training. Delphine was to remain in Sky Haven Temple, as she was a Breton and the local Forsworn knew she could be trusted. The Forsworn and handful of Orsimer, Dunmer and Bosmer, Khajiit and Argonian recruits were sent there; they were all taught the signal of non-hostility so that they were not attacked before they arrived at the temple. Nord, Imperial, Redguard and Breton recruits were sent to a location east of Riften where Esbern and his contacts in the area established a place for them to hide and train.

As Esbern had put it, some of the recruits might eventually learn that there was no need for hatred toward one another, only toward dragons and the Thalmor, but some would never shed their cultural upbringings. I myself held a deep distrust and dislike of Nords, but I kept those feelings to myself. The Blades needed numbers, and Nords were the most numerous of the races in Skyrim. Esbern and Delphine had developed an oath for the recruits to take, promising that their primary objective was to hunt down and kill dragons and Thalmor, and that they would never raise a hand against a fellow Blade. Several Forsworn recruits had been lost by this final necessity, but many saw it possible to look beyond their personal agendas. For a while, anyway. The promise of dragon-tooth necklaces of their own was enough to keep most Forsworn in check.

I had just finished a visit to the hideout in The Rift when I had found and began to track a dragon. I went alone, as the Blade recruits were still in training, and were also waiting for their uniforms to be forged. Esbern had hired an apprentice blacksmith from Riften to perform this task.

It took me a week, but I had finally brought down the clever beast south of Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloaks's realm. The sneer that crossed my face was involuntary. I was collecting the dragon's teeth, claws, horns and scales when I saw another dragon soar north, above the city.

I thought perhaps I could lure the dragon south, outside the city walls, but nothing I did, no bursts of fire or ice caught the attention of the green beast. I packed my collected dragon remains and set on my way into the city.

The dragon had been hovering to the north, but then disappeared into the city toward the northwest. I had never been to Windhelm before that day, not inside the city walls, anyway, but I eventually found my way to an open area where I was greeted by a crowd of Stormcloaks and a dragon skeleton.

_Skeleton_!? I stared at the heap of bones, and then turned to see a shuddering, vomiting Nord mage on her hands and knees. She was being comforted by a large Nord man in furs. A Stormcloak officer.

And then I realized – the Nord mage was disoriented, pained, and confused. She was also near the dragon skeleton, and everyone in the crowd was staring directly at her.

Though I myself was never particularly pained by the experience, I knew that the Nord mage had absorbed the dragon's soul.  _My_ dragon's soul. I walked closer to the mage and stared down at her. She and her mate did not seem to notice me.

Fuming, I took several deep breaths before shouting, "What the  _fuck_  did you do!?"

The Nord mage peered up at me, eyes red from shedding tears, nose dripping with mucus. "Who…?" she barely formed the word.

I crouched down to meet her level, took her chin in my fingers and forced her to look at me. I needed to see her eyes. Sure enough, a shimmer of white remained in her blue irises, a sign of the fresh fusion of dragon souls.  _Damn it._  She jerked her face away from me, and her mate stood to her defense.

"Get away from her!" the hairy Stormcloak officer shouted.

I took a few steps back, taking in the scene, wondering what to do about this new competitor.  _A mage_ , I scoffed in my head.  _What the fuck is a mage going to do with dragon souls!?_

The mage choked on her own mucus, and her mate knelt back at her side. I heard whispers behind them from the crowd.  _Dragonborn_ , they said. I wondered if they were talking about me, or the disgusting female mage.

A tall, blond Nord with fancy armor stepped forward to the mage's side. "You'd be wise to stay away from the mage," the man's deep voice commanded.

I took a step toward the old warrior and snarled. "And who the fuck are you, her father?"

"That's Ulfric Stormcloak,  _orc_ ," I heard a woman say from somewhere in the crowd.

I stared at the old warrior in the fancy armor with the white-shimmering axe at his hip. He was spattered with dark blood, dragon's blood, and had an air about him that screamed "Nord Pride".  _Of course_  that was Ulfric Stormcloak.

Racist. Fascist. Murderer of Seaghdha's –  _my_  people. The Bear of Markarth stood directly in front of me, and was completely off his guard.

I still had Volendrung in my hand. I could do it. I could do it and run. Whether I lived or died, the son of a Nord bitch would be dead, and I would be a hero.

It didn't take me long to make my decision.

Volendrung was as light as a feather as I swung the warhammer at Ulfric Stormcloak's face. The sound the impact made was a familiar one. The dissonance of both  _pop_  and  _splat_ flowed into my ears as the Jarl's blood and brains painted my face and armor.

I wasted no time in my retreat.

" _Feim Zii Gron!"_ The Shout turned me into a living ghost, a translucent, ethereal being, able to dodge any blow. I growled victoriously as I ran from the body of Ulfric Stormcloak, ran from his guards and wasted rain of arrows, ran from the fat Nord woman who stole my dragon soul. When I turned a corner in the city streets, I downed an invisibility potion and ran for the docks.

The ship that sailed to Solstheim was there. Now that I would be a wanted man for life in the city of Windhelm, I decided it was a good idea to perhaps temporarily relocate to the large island to the east.

I smiled as I ran. I had done it. I had killed the enemy of the Forsworn, the Bear of Markarth. Volendrung had turned the Nord's head into mush. Walking into Windhelm, I had felt dirty. Now, I felt clean, purified in the blood of the enemy of my new people.

I cared not for the war that the Nord had started against the Empire, nor that many of my orc brothers and sisters had joined the Imperial Army. Their decisions did not affect me. The civil war in Skyrim did not affect me. The Reachmen lived their own lives in and of nature, not in and of  _Skyrim_.

When I eventually returned to Madanach and my new people, I would be a hero thrice-over. Blessed and chosen by both Malacath and Akatosh. Dragonslayer. Kingslayer.  _Or, well, slayer of a would-be King_ , I reminded myself. I stifled a laugh.

The matter of the fat Nord mage who stole my dragon soul would have to wait. She was under the protection of the Stormcloaks, and every one of those damn racists would be hunting for me, wishing to place my head on a pike. I could only hope that Stormcloak army deserters recruited into The Blades did not care that I killed their former would-be King.

The invisibility potion wore off moments after I sat down in a private room below deck on the Northern Maiden. I closed and locked the door before I unhitched Volendrung from my back and stared at the spikey end. It was caked with Ulfric Stormcloak's blood and tiny particles of his brain. Several blond wisps of hair flowed as I moved the weapon.

I swiped the gore with a finger and gave it a lick. Ulfric tasted like a coward. I spit him out onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this little preview/teaser. It's going to be a while before we run into Torug again (obviously, because the guy has to go into self-exile!) Because Deborah has really only met people who at least don't hate Ulfric Stormcloak, I thought it would be interesting and necessary to explore the other side of life in Skyrim, those who live in the country but are not Nord, and are not Stormcloak supporters (or perhaps even hate them). Deborah so far has been pretty sheltered, and that needed to change.
> 
> Stay tuned for "Hero by Choice"! I hope to get the first chapter up within a month or two.


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